“Thank you,” Mrs. Gambrelli says, cuddling her son to her breast. “Where did you come from so fast?”
The figure is that of a young girl, scarcely more than a child herself. Thin-faced, with dark ragged hair, she wears worn jeans and a dirty windbreaker that seems too light for such a chilly day. As Mrs. Hucklebee looks up at her the girl’s brown eyes pass slowly across her face.
“I could use a dollar,” she says to Mrs. Gambrelli.
Mrs. Gambrelli looks flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t brought my purse.”
Magnanimously, Mrs. Hucklebee opens her own. “Here.” She presses a bill into the girl’s small cold hand. “Get a cup of hot chocolate. Aren’t you cold in that little jacket? You should go home and put on something warm.”
The girl murmurs, “Thanks.” Before turning away, she studies Mrs. Hucklebee’s face again. The women watch her walk away and disappear into a tangle of shrubbery nearby.
“Sad to see children begging on the streets,” Mrs. Gambrelli says, tightening her hold on Joey.
Mrs. Hucklebee has already forgotten the girl. She’s gazing fondly at her house on the comer across the boulevard — dark and tall, a high stone wall enclosing its backyard. She is unaware of its slightly shabby appearance, a darkening tooth in the street’s otherwise pleasant smile. Mrs. Hucklebee’s home is her haven. It holds all her treasures.
She stands up abruptly. “So nice talking to you, Mrs. Gambrelli. I must go and see to my new leaf.”
She hurries across the boulevard, eager, not feeling the eyes that follow her all the way home.
With winter approaching, dusk lowers earlier each day. By the time the golden leaf is shrouded in plastic and placed inside a scrapbook the lights are on, glowing valiantly in cavernous old rooms, dimmed by dark wainscoting and faded wallpaper. Mrs. Hucklebee hums in her kitchen while chicken pops and fizzles in a black iron skillet and the aroma of baking banana bread wafts into the far recesses of the house.
The doorbell stirs her from her complacency. In the feeble pool cast by the porch light the girl from the park smiles at her through the screen.
“I’m hungry,” she says in a small clear voice. “You’re so nice I know you’ll want to give me something to eat. I’ll work for it. Is that fried chicken I smell?”
She’s holding the door handle — the screen begins to open. Startled, Mrs. Hucklebee backs away.
“But I—” she says.
The girl’s inside. Still smiling, her dark eyes innocent. The eyes, Mrs. Hucklebee’s brain reminds her faintly, it’s always in the eyes. She takes another backward step.
The girl says over her shoulder, “It’s okay, Wolf. Come on. I told you, didn’t I?”
Wolf. “I don’t like dogs,” Mrs. Hucklebee manages softly before a dark figure materializes from the porch shadows, and now she faces two strange young people in her little vestibule. The second one is a boy, a tall reed in a long black coat, his hair so pale it appears white. The upper half of his face is shrouded by wrapped sunglasses so dark the lenses look painted. Mrs. Hucklebee can’t see his eyes.
“I don’t know about this,” she begins hesitantly. But the girl has already moved past her, leaving a scent of cold and smoke, or skin not quite clean. The boy is motionless just inside the front door, blank glassed eyes fixed on Mrs. Hucklebee’s face. After a long moment he reaches behind him and closes the solid old door.
“Is this way the kitchen?” the girl asks from somewhere behind her. “Come on, Wolf. It’s so nice and warm in here.”
Both children are seated at the kitchen table, Mrs. Hucklebee’s solitary supper set before them. She hovers uncertainly near the stove.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hucklebee,” the girl says. “You’re a nice lady.”
“How do you know my name?” she asks in surprise.
“It’s on the mailbox.” The girl doles out food, three equal portions on thick white plates. “I’m Crystalbell and this is Wolf, by the way.” She smiles. “We haven’t had a real meal for days.”
The boy has not removed his dusty black coat or the heavy sunglasses. He also has not spoken. Mrs. Hucklebee eyes the plate waiting for her at the table and a little tremble starts somewhere near her heart.
“Crystalbell’s a pretty name,” she murmurs weakly.
“Well, it’s not my real one, of course. I think people should pick the name they want, don’t you? That’s what me and Wolf did. What’s your name, for instance?”
Mrs. Hucklebee answers, “Edwina,” before she can stop herself.
Crystalbell laughs, the sound as light and tinkly as her name. “There, you see? We’ll have to do something about that.”
The boy begins to eat slowly and methodically. Mrs. Hucklebee seats herself gingerly at the table.
“Wouldn’t you like to take off your coat?” she addresses him tentatively. “And those glasses?” Suddenly it occurs to her that he might be blind. She looks the question at Crystalbell. The girl grins through a mushy mouthful of banana bread.
“Two things you need to know about Wolf, Mrs. H. He doesn’t talk and he doesn’t take off his glasses. Ever. Wolf’s not too crazy about the world, so he pretty much lives in his own. Remember that and you’ll get along fine.” She hesitates. “And it’s really best if you don’t hassle him. He’s got a short fuse.”
Mrs. Hucklebee experiences a little chill. What is happening here? Where did these children come from and what are they doing eating fried chicken in her house?
Crystalbell says, “You got a nice big house here. Live all by yourself?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hucklebee answers, trying to organize her thoughts. “Mr. Hucklebee’s been dead for years.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” the girl says. “Looks like he left you pretty well fixed, though. You got any kids?”
“A son. But I’m not sure where he lives. He — we’re not close.” Her head clears slightly. “How old are you, child? Where’s your home, your family?”
“I’m thirteen,” Crystalbell answers calmly. “Wolf here’s fifteen. We been together almost two years. Gone all over, you’d be surprised.”
Mrs. Hucklebee can’t help feeling sorry for the little waif. “But how do you live? Where do you sleep? Tonight — where will you go tonight?”
For a moment Crystalbell doesn’t answer. Then her eyes raise. She looks like she’s trying not to cry.
“I was hoping we could stay here. You got such a nice big house. You know, I was noticing your kitchen cabinets — they could use a good cleaning. And I bet you got a yard out back needs work. Wolf could do that for you. He loves to dig.”
Mrs. Hucklebee slides a fearful glance at the silent boy. Hunched over his empty plate, he’s watching her. She sees her own distorted image reflected in the black glass over his eyes. The tremble near her heart lurches.
“Oh no,” she hears herself whisper. “There must be shelters. I could call — find a place for you to stay.”
Crystalbell leans close to lay a warm hand on her arm. “It’ll be okay, Mrs. H. Honest. Kind of nice in a way — like a family.”
Mrs. Hucklebee tears her eyes from the boy’s steady blind gaze. “But most of my rooms are used for storage, you see. I don’t have—”
“Don’t worry about us,” Crystalbell assures her with a firm pat. “We can just throw some blankets down on the living room floor.”
The remark startles her. “Both of you? But surely the two of you don’t—”
“Now, Mrs. H,” Crystalbell says with a small smile, “I don’t ask you nosy questions, do I? You show me the blankets and I’ll take it from there.”